I have a question. A simple one. When did ordering coffee start requiring a translator, a glossary, and possibly a minor in chemistry?

Back in my day—(and yes, I hear myself saying that, thank you very much)—you walked into a coffee shop and said one of three things:

“I’ll have coffee.”
“I’ll have coffee with cream.”
Or, if you were feeling wild:
“Coffee. Black.”

And that was it. No follow-up questions. No clarifications. No emotional journey. You paid. You received coffee. You left.

Now?

Now I stand in line behind someone who orders: A tall half-caf oat milk matcha latte with an extra shot, caramel swirl, two pumps of vanilla, light foam, extra hot—but not too hot—in a grande cup.

In a grande cup.

Which is not, as one might assume, the same as a tall. Because of course it isn’t.

And here’s the thing—I’m not even mad at the person ordering. I’m a little impressed. Truly. The confidence. The precision. The complete mastery of a beverage I didn’t even know existed.

But I am a little nostalgic.

Because somewhere along the way, we lost something important:

The Coffee Only Line.

Oh yes. It existed. At a very busy Starbucks (and maybe others, but that’s where I saw it) in Beaverton, Oregon there was once a magical, glorious option:

A separate line for people who just wanted… coffee.

No syrups.
No foam debates.
No existential milk choices.

Just coffee.

You poured your own, put cash in the basket and within seconds—SECONDS—you were on your way.

It was a thing of beauty.

Meanwhile, today’s baristas deserve a standing ovation.

They are managing:

In-person orders
App orders
Drive-thru orders
And a growing list of drinks that sound like dessert met a science experiment

All while putting names on cups or a friendly "have a good day" and keeping a straight face when someone asks for “just a hint of lavender but not too floral.”

Honestly? They’re heroes.

And then there’s the generational divide.

My teen orders something called an affogato after dinner like he’s been living in Italy his whole life. I’m still over here thinking, what is an affogato? “Is it hot? Is it cold? Why is there ice cream involved?” He explained it to me after ordering.

But maybe this is just how things evolve. Coffee didn’t get more complicated. It got more… expressive. Personal. Creative. A little over the top?

Yes. But also kind of wonderful.

Still.

If anyone out there is listening… If any brave coffee shop owner wants to change the world…

Bring back the Coffee Only Line.

You will have a loyal following of slightly confused, mildly impatient, nostalgically inclined customers who just want a cup of coffee and five extra minutes of their lives back.

I’ll be first in line. The short one. With the simple order.

“Coffee. Just… coffee.”

WHEN SMART PEOPLE BELIEVE DUMB THINGS

You know that Facebook post. The one that pops up every few months like a bad rash: “I hereby declare that Facebook does not have permission to use my photos or personal information…”

And every time, people copy, paste, and hit “post” like they’ve just outsmarted a billion-dollar tech company with a paragraph written in ALL CAPS.  I usually scroll past with a little eye roll and maybe a muttered, “Oh honey… no.” But this week, I heard something that stopped me mid-scroll. A librarian told a friend it was true.

A librarian.

Now, if there’s anyone I trust to know the difference between fact and fiction, it’s a librarian. These are the keepers of the Dewey Decimal System. The guardians of quiet. The people who can find anything if you give them three vague clues and a last name that might be spelled wrong. And yet… here we are. In 2026, here’s the uncomfortable truth:  Smart people believe questionable things all the time. Not because they’re not smart. Because they’re human.

We want things to be true — especially when they make us feel a little more in control. That copy-and-paste post feels like action. Like we’ve drawn a line in the sand. Like we’ve told Big Tech, “Not today, sir.” It takes five seconds. It feels official. It even sounds a little legal-ish. And best of all? No research required. That’s the magic trick of misinformation. It doesn’t show up looking ridiculous. It shows up looking just believable enough — especially when someone we trust nods along and says, “Yes, I think that’s right.”

And honestly, I get it.

We’re all tired. The internet is loud. There’s always something new to worry about, fix, click, update, verify, or reset (preferably after turning it off and on again).
Sometimes it’s just easier to copy, paste, and move on with your day. But here’s the thing: Facebook does not care about your paragraph. Not even a little. They didn’t pause their board meeting. No one in Silicon Valley said, “Wait… JB has posted a declaration. Shut it all down.”

The only thing that post really does… is spread. And the more it spreads, the more it feels true. Which is how  smart people — even librarians — get caught in the loop. So maybe the goal isn’t to never be fooled. That’s probably unrealistic.  Maybe the goal is just to pause.

To hesitate for half a second before hitting “share.”
To wonder, “Is this actually how this works… or does it just feel like it should?” Because in the age of information, the real skill isn’t knowing everything. It’s knowing when to question something.

And here’s the part that truly leaves me… flabbergastational.  Even after people find out it’s false — they don’t delete it.  It just… sits there. Quietly. Incorrectly. Living its best little misinformation life.
I’m not saying we all need to issue formal retractions and hold press conferences on Facebook. 

But a quick delete? A tiny “Oops, this isn’t true”? That seems reasonable, doesn’t it? Apparently not. Because deleting it would mean admitting we got it wrong. And for some reason, that feels worse than leaving something inaccurate floating around for Aunt Linda and the entire neighborhood watch group to absorb as fact.So instead, we scroll on… stepping neatly over our own digital footprints like they don’t belong to us.

A disclaimer we really need is this: I promise to fact check before I post… and delete any post once I find out it is not true.

250 CANDLES

Preparing for America’s Semiquincentennial

The 4th of July, 2026, lands on a Saturday. A long weekend. A big birthday. Not just any birthday— 250 years of American independence. The Semiquincentennial. (Try saying that three times after a glass of wine.)

And it has me wondering… What will YOU be doing?
Because this feels like one of those moments worth planning ahead for.

The last time America threw a really big birthday party, it was 1976. The Bicentennial. And I remember it like it was yesterday. My first hubby, my 16-year-old sister, and I piled into our tiny yellow Dodge Colt station wagon — the kind that looked cheerful and harmless but had absolutely no business crossing multiple states in July.

Without air-conditioning. Of course not. When having the windows down didn’t work, we’d buy a block of ice, wrap it in towels, and take turns dipping washcloths into the melting puddle—wiping our faces, our arms, honestly…anything that needed cooling down.

The three week trip had this corn-fed girl from Ohio completely in awe. National Parks that didn’t look real. Visiting Pike’s Peak. Wineries (very educational). Breweries (also educational). And San Francisco Chinatown—where I discovered flavors that changed my life. (dim sum, green tea ice cream)

We were glamorous in our own way. Mostly camping. One night sleeping in the car. Every third day, we’d splurge on a cheap motel— the kind where the towels were thin and the water pressure was questionable …but oh, those showers felt like luxury.

And then there were the surprises. We “accidentally” stumbled into:A garlic festival in Gilroy, CA (where the air itself had personality)(yes, they had garlic ice cream)An artichoke festival in Castroville (who knew vegetables could throw a party?) We gorged.

Souvenirs? I bought a ring at every favorite spot for memories.

No reservations.
No GPS.
No agenda beyond: keep going.

And maybe that’s what I remember most. The feeling that something big was happening — not just in the country, but in us. We were part of it. Rolling across America with melted ice, damp washcloths, and wide-open eyes.

Here we are again. 250 years this time. A quarter of a millennium of messy, complicated, resilient, hopeful history. And I can’t help but think … Maybe this is our moment to do something memorable again. Not necessarily a cross-country trek in a non-air-conditioned vehicle (we’ve evolved, thankfully), but something intentional. Something that says: I was here for this milestone.

A backyard gathering?
A family trip?
A WLLO neighborhood bash? (You KNOW I’m thinking about it…)
A simple toast with people you love?

Whatever it is…

Plan now.

Because if there’s one thing I learned in 1976, it’s this:

The best memories aren’t the perfectly planned ones. They’re the ones where you show up, stay curious… and don’t mind getting a little melted along the way.

So tell me…
Where will you be when America turns 250?

🇺🇸

The Tyranny of Tiny Procedures

I had one of those small revelations this week while volunteering at WLLO. Not the kind that makes you a better person. Just the kind that makes you stare at your computer screen and think, “Well… that’s fascinating.”  NOT.

Some people love procedures.

Not the big ones that explain how the whole operation actually works. No, those are apparently far too ambitious. I’m talking about the tiny procedures.

Procedures for how to format a recap email.

Procedures for when to send the recap email.
Procedures for how to label the recap email.
Possibly soon, procedures for the proper emotional tone of the recap email.

Meanwhile, the actual core responsibility of the job — the main thing we’re all supposed to be doing — hasn’t been written down since 2020.

That would be me.

Five years ago I updated the document explaining how the whole system works. Step by step with screen shots. Since then it has apparently entered the category of Ancient Historical Artifacts.

But the tiny things?  Oh, the tiny things are thriving.

There is something comforting about tiny procedures. They create the pleasant illusion that we are controlling chaos. If the bullet points are neat and the formatting consistent, surely the universe itself will fall into line.

I understand the impulse. Truly I do.

But sometimes it feels like we have procedures for the commas but not the sentence.  Give people a big messy responsibility and they will instinctively organize the parts that are easiest to control.

The spreadsheet columns.
The email headings.
The folder names.

Meanwhile the real work continues to rely on the oldest system known to mankind:

The workers remember how it works.  The new Team Lead?  Not so much.  Which brings me to the quiet truth about volunteering.

The people who keep things running are rarely the ones writing procedures about them. They’re too busy actually doing the work.

Answering the emails.
Returning the phone calls.
Solving the problems.
Entering service requests. Sending them to volunteers.
Finishing the tasks someone forgot yesterday.  (Even after I sent her an email because she sent another request three times and a more pressing one not at all)

They just get on with it.  And maybe that’s how most organizations survive.  Because at the end of the day, things don’t run on perfectly formatted procedures.  They run on people who show up, figure it out, and keep going.

Even if the recap email doesn’t follow subsection 4B of the Procedure for Tiny Procedures.

CHRONICLES OF THE CLOCK

The concept dates back to Benjamin Franklin in 1784, who jokingly suggested that Parisians could save money on candles if they simply woke up earlier. (Classic Ben. Inventor, diplomat, and apparently the world’s first morning person.)

The concept of Daylight Saving Time as we know it today was first proposed by George Vernon Hudson, a postal worker, and entomologist from New Zealand. Hudson is credited with proposing modern-day daylight saving time. His shift-work job gave him leisure time to collect insects, and led him to value after-hours daylight.  In 1895, he presented a paper to the Wellington Philosophical Society proposing a two-hour daylight-saving shift, and after considerable interest was expressed in Christchurch, he followed up in an 1898 paper and the Summer-Time Act was passed in 1927.

But clocks didn’t actually change for us until World War I, when Germany adopted daylight saving time in 1916 to conserve coal during the war. The United States followed in 1918.

So the entire country now changes its clocks twice a year because of coal shortages during a war that ended over a century ago.  

And there are some drawbacks.  The spring transition causes sleep deprivation, resulting in a roughly 10% increase in heart attacks, more strokes, and a 5.7% rise in workplace injuries.  Studies estimate that "cyber-loafing" and fatigue in the days following the time change result in over $400 million in lost productivity annually.

A study published last year by researchers from several business schools found that investors and capital market participants are slower to respond to accounting reports in the week after we "spring forward" – which falls smack in the middle of earnings season.

Another weird fact?  In the early 80's Indiana had some counties on DST and some counties not.  My Mother-in-Law lived there.  When making appointments or social engagement you had to confirm the time in that location!

(she lived in the southeast corner)

Here’s the part that surprised me: farmers hate it.

Cows do not care what Congress says the time is. They are extremely committed to their own schedule and will not be rushed. So when clocks changed, farmers were suddenly trying to milk cows an hour earlier while the cows were still standing there like, “Nice try.”

Only Arizona and Hawaii have the good sense to keep their clocks the same year round.  As well as several U.S. territories:

American Samoa
Guam
Northern Mariana Islands
Puerto Rico
U.S. Virgin Islands

The sun has managed its own schedule for several billion years. Leave Mother Nature alone!

TABS OPEN IN MY BRAIN

If my brain were a browser, I currently have 47 tabs open.

And somewhere, faintly, music is playing… and I cannot find it.  This week’s cognitive cardio event was switching from Chrome to Safari.  Why you ask?  Because of yet another fraudulent charge on my VISA.  Nothing like a mysterious $60.63 from “Global Something Something LLC” to make a woman reconsider her entire digital existence.

So naturally, I decided the solution was … a complete browser migration.  At my age.  With new bookmarks and new passwords.  Max convinced me using Safari would add a second layer of security for online purchases. I'm also adding 2 factor authentication to all of my credit cards.  (I already have each card send me an email for charges over $1).

Tab #1: Fraud Panic

How did they get my number?  Was it Amazon?  Was it Chrome? Was it that one time I ordered compression socks at 2 a.m.?  I use secure sites. I check for the little “s” in https. I am not new.

And yet.  Apparently somewhere in the great invisible cloud of capitalism, my digits are partying without me.

Tab #2: Safari vs. Chrome — Cage Match

Switching browsers sounds simple.  It is not simple.  It is:

• Why does this page look so different and not user friendly?
• Where are my bookmarks?
• Why is nothing autofilling?
• Who am I?

Yes, I have 1Password.
Yes, I am somewhat competent.
Yes, I still muttered things that would make a sailor blush.

Tab #3: Identity Crisis

Chrome knew me.  Safari is politely pretending to.  Chrome remembered my shopping habits.

Safari is asking, “And who are you exactly?”  Honestly, some days I’d like to ask myself the same question.

Tab #4: Decision Fatigue

Meanwhile, actual life continues:

• WLLO minutes and daily FB posts
• HOPE posts that no one wants to jazz up
• Seablush bookkeeping and website building
• Toe healing
• Grandkid logistics
• Amazon card drama

Every one of these is a mental tab open.  I’m tired and my brain hurts.

Tab #5: Neuroplasticity (Whether I Like It or Not)

They say learning new things keeps your brain young.  If that’s true, I should look 42 by now.

Switching browsers at this stage of life feels like rearranging your kitchen in the dark.  You can do it.  But you will hit your shin and stub your bruised big toe.

Tab #6: The Dream

Delete Chrome.  Close the tab.  Walk into the sunset with Safari like we’re in a Nancy Meyers movie about digital maturity.   Will it solve fraud? Probably not.  Will it make me feel like I’ve taken back control?  Absolutely.  And at my age, sometimes control is simply choosing which browser gets to exhaust you.

If you hear music playing and can’t find the tab…

It might be your brain.

Or it might be growth.

Either way, I’m logging off for today.

Ta-ta for now.

Ode to My Big Toe

There was a time in my life when my big toes had one job: look cute in sandals. They both performed admirably.

Now, at 74, my big toe requires medical supervision, genetic analysis, careful trimming protocols, and a nightly petroleum jelly routine. I did not see this coming.

Apparently, I inherited my mother’s inward curving big toenails.  She passed along many wonderful things: resilience, practicality, a sturdy constitution, a love of cooking. And also, it seems, ambitious nail curvature.

Some kids inherit fine china. I inherited a C-shaped toe strategy.  This week, my podiatrist trimmed just a bit too enthusiastically and nicked the side. One tiny spot of blood. Nothing dramatic. But when you are a Type 2 gal, even a tiny toe injury becomes a committee meeting.

I tried not panic.
I tried to just assess.

An acquaintance with Type 2 got a cut on his foot that refused to heel.  So I am a very Nervous Nelly.  (After six months of doctor appointments and various antibiotics, he had to have his foot amputated).

Max suggested I clean and pat dry and apply petroleum jelly.  Twice a day.  Let nature do its thing first.  If anything changes, I'll be contacting the podiatrist.

You know ~ there is a humility that comes with aging body maintenance. Reading glasses on every surface. Hearing aids I adore. Slip-on shoes that prioritize stability over seduction. A podiatrist on speed dial. These are not signs of decline; they are evidence of attention.

At 30, I bought heels.
At 74, I buy sturdy slip on shoes.

So here I am, petroleum jelly at the ready, grateful for modern podiatry (most of the time), wide-toed shoes, and a body that, with a little supervision, still carries me exactly where I want to go.  Youth is about enhancement. Aging is about maintenance.

I need to remind him that I prefer nails trimmed straight across.